PukhtunWomen

As the ground slowly starts thawing after the winter freeze and the sun shines a little brighter and warmer, I feel a primitive urge to go and turn the soil for this years vegetable patch.

I take my rake and hoe and head out in my windbreaker. Clearing the leaves and then marking out the size of the vegetable patch I can already see where my tomatoes and onions will go, I can already see the corn will standing tall and that place over there where the fennel and coriander will fight for space with the basil. I think of the onions that are sending up green shoots in my kitchen already.

The wind breaker goes first as I work up a sweat turning the ground. As the sun gets higher in the sky I am smiling and singing. I do not believe in reincarnation but whole heartedly believe that mine is an old soul, tied to the universe in ways I can not explain. This urge to feel the warm moist soil under my bare feet and the irresistible smell of freshly turned soil is like an addiction.

This a ritual for me every year no matter how many times my husband tells me that it would be cheaper to get all the vegetables from the farmers market up the road. I make my case by saying "There is something about biting into a red juicy tomato, fresh and warm off the vine, or sliced and sprinkled with a dash of salt." I smile and he shakes his head.

It took me ten trips to the river bed to bring back enough silt and sand to start the mint. I had blisters on my hands and a months worth of back pain for my efforts, but the mint returning the next spring was a reward in itself. Just watching the first green shoots is ecstasy. Ah! the smell of mint when it rains.

Planting has taught me many lessons, the most important being flexibility, because something suits me does not mean it works well for someone else. One year I worked hard to get an herb garden started and it failed miserably, I had followed the instructions, but none of the plants did well, so I gave up on it. Now I find all kind of herbs showing up in different parts of the garden and I let them be. I no longer care if the rosemary is happier in between the roses or that I have lemon balm growing under the outdoor sink or that the sage is propagating in the petunia bed and I certainly do not object to the smell of chives and cilantro when I mow the lawn.

There is very little to show for all the effort that goes into the planting and weeding and more often than not the baskets that my children take to fill up come back empty, but their smiling faces and sticky hands are a testament to all the flavors they have enjoyed.